


Where We Love is Home (Our Feet May Leave but not Our Hearts)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Focus, Gen, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank is determined to figure out and resolve whatever is wrong with Gus. Written per reader request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where We Love is Home (Our Feet May Leave but not Our Hearts)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during Gus' rookie year. While it can certainly be read as a stand-alone piece, a flashback contains references to events that happen in another one of my works entitled "The Sun's Rays Do not Burn (until Brought to a Focus)", so if anyone is interested in having more background than what I provide here (which I believe is sufficient for understanding and enjoying this story), I suggest reading that one. 
> 
> The Swedish custom of being able to roam the land that Gus describes is also true to life, in case anyone was curious about the accuracy of that.

“Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”—Oliver Wendell Holmes

Where We Love is Home (Our Feet May Leave but not Our Hearts) 

Gus was utterly undone, and Hank wasn’t sure how to put him back together again. All throughout practice, there had been holes in Gus’ concentration wide enough to drive a Ram through, and his positioning and passing had been awry in almost every drill, prompting Babcock to bark at him until tears he refused to let fall swam in Gus’ sea blue eyes. 

In the meeting room where Hank had steered Gus, those tears were now cresting in broken waves onto Hank’s jeans as Gus wept shoulder-heaving sobs. Combing through Gus’ damp and tangled hair with his fingers, Hank wished he could say the right thing but that was impossible without knowing what was really wrong with his rookie—since while Gus’ practice has been a nightmare, whatever was troubling him appeared to have preceded and even caused the terrible practice—so he settled for making soothing noises that he hoped would encourage Gus to share whatever was shattering him. 

“Don’t be mad at me, please, Z.” When Gus finally spoke, it was in the desperate, dry tone of a man thirsting for water during a desert sandstorm. 

“Why would I be mad at you?” Hank let one hand drift down to stroke calming circles along Gus’ quaking back. 

“Because I had an awful effort in practice.” Gus burrowed his face deeper into Hank’s knees, muffling his words with denim and stifled cries. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I didn’t mean to be bad. It just happened.” 

“You aren’t bad, Gus,” corrected Hank gently, tilting up Gus’ chin so he could wipe away some of the droplets of tears coating his pale and sweaty cheeks. “Just sad, I think. Why don’t you tell me what’s got you so upset?” 

“I can’t.” Gus’ chin trembled. 

“Why not?” Hank rubbed the soft skin under Gus’ chin in a manner that usually drew a contented sigh from him but this time only elicited a whimper. 

“It’s stupid.” Gus’ gaze sank to the carpet. “You’d be angry at me for being distracted for such a dumb reason, Hank.” 

“Anything that’s got you crying like this isn’t dumb.” Hank shook Gus’ shoulders slightly. “Now, tell me what’s bothering you.” 

“You’ll be mad at me if I don’t.” Gus hid his face behind his hands as if he were a child playing a weepy game of Peek-a-Boo. 

“Not mad.” Hank squeezed Gus’ shoulders and felt the tense muscles relax. Wondering if he had ever as a rookie defined the emotional range of his mentor as mad-or-not-mad as Gus seemed to to right now, he added, “Just worried, Gus.” 

“It’s nothing to worry about.” Gus nibbled on his lower lip. “I’m just being a wimp.” 

Suddenly, as if his earlier internal inquiry about his perception of his mentor’s emotional acuity as a rookie made him remember another conversation that had taken place in this meeting room what felt like yesterday but was really more years ago than Hank wanted to count because the numbering would cause his bones to ache with age. If the walls could spill secrets, Hank thought, they would whisper about him kneeling before Steve Yzerman after a practice where he had been so absent in mind that he might as well not have been present in body…

“Hank.” Steve’s voice was stern enough that Hank didn’t dare bury his face in Steve’s knee, even though he craved that comfort. “I thought we handled your focus problem last night.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hank mumbled, Steve’s disapproval stinging him worse than the spanking he had received last night. Staring at the floor and longing for a crevice to materialize, swallow him, and send him shooting out in Beijing or somewhere equally foreign where nobody would know his name or his shame, he whispered, “I didn’t mean to be distracted. Please don’t spank me again, Stevie.” 

“I didn’t spank you for being distracted, kid. I spanked you for being stubborn and disrespectful, which you aren’t being right now.” Steve sighed and cupped Hank’s chin. “Anyway, I promised you that I wouldn’t spank you again, and I’ll always keep my word to you, no matter how difficult it is. We’ll have to deal with this some other way.” 

Hank should have felt reassured that his backside was out of the line of fire, but Steve’s dark eyes were so intense that Hank shivered, not wanting to be the problem Steve dealt with. 

“In order to deal with this, though, I have to know what’s wrong.” One of Steve’s fingers traced the outline of Hank’s quivering jaw. “You’ve got to tell me what’s bothering you, Hank.” 

“It’s stupid.” Hank shook his head as if to dislodge an irksome fly. 

“I don’t care how stupid it is.” Steve tapped Hank’s cheek lightly, urging him to speak, “What’s even stupider is it continuing to be a problem for you because you won’t explain to me what’s wrong so we can fix it.” 

“I—“ Hank let a deep breath circulate through his lungs and nostrils before he took the plunge—“miss Sweden.” 

“Last night you weren’t being stubborn; you were homesick.” It was an observation, not a question, but Hank nodded anyhow. Massaging the nape of his neck, Steve murmured, “If I had realized you were homesick, I wouldn’t have spanked you, Z. I’m sorry.” 

Hearing Steve Yzerman apologize for anything felt as unnatural as hearing Nick Lidstrom be rude to anyone or Pavel Datsyuk teach someone the intricacies of English grammar, so, although he had blamed Steve for spanking him last night, Hank pointed out, “You wouldn’t have known, Captain. It’s not like I told you.” 

“It’s not like I asked.” Steve slid a lock of hair away from Hank’s forehead, and Hank, who didn’t have a clue how to respond to this remark, remained silent as Steve continued to brush the hair around his forehead. 

For a moment, everything was so quiet and calm that Hank could hear their hearts ticking like the clocks of their lives. Then Steve asked, “What do you miss most about Sweden, Hank?” 

Hank’s eyes folded shut reflectively. He missed the sights because the buildings, bridges, and houses were different in Sweden. He missed the smells because the plants were different and the pollution less. He missed the sounds because the language was different and the volume lower. Most of all, though, he missed the flavor of Sweden, because even the cereal in America was strange compared to why he had eaten for breakfast in Sweden. 

“The food,” he answered at last. “Everything here is different than what I ate at home.” 

“Drop by my house tonight.” Steve clapped Hank on the back. “We’ll cook up a batch of Swedish meatballs.” 

“You know how to make them?” Surprised, Hank raised his eyebrows. 

“No.” Steve’s lips quirked into the beginning of a wry grin. “But I’m certain you do. After all, you are Swedish.” 

“You’re so stereotypical.” Hank wrinkled his nose. “Just because I’m Swedish, you assume I have a great recipe for Swedish meatballs.” 

“Well, don’t you?” Steve rapped Hank on the nose with a finger. 

“Mamma makes the best meatballs in Sweden and she taught me her secret recipe, but that’s not the point.” Hank lifted his palms in exasperation. 

“To me it is.” Steve’s wry grin was firmly in place as he ruffled Hank’s hair. “I want my Swedish meatballs, kid, and I won’t be denied.” 

Hank smiled faintly as he emerged from the fog of this memory, but when he glanced down at Gus, who was nestling against his knee like a baby sparrow afraid of being swooped on by a hunting hawk and emitting the snuffling noises associated with squelched sobs, it was replaced by a frown. 

“Gus, are you missing Sweden?” Hank posed this question more because he couldn’t think of anything else than because he suspected it was right. 

“How did you know?” Gus gaped up at him as if he just announced that he were telepathic. “Was it that obvious, Hank?” 

“Obvious, no.” Hank tugged on Gus’ earlobe, half in play and half in admonishment. “That’s why I was so worried about you, kid.” 

“I know it’s wrong for me to be homesick for Sweden when I’ve played in America for years, first in college, then in the AHL, and finally in the NHL.” Gus’ face was flaming so much that Hank was sure an egg could be fried over it. 

“It’s never wrong to miss a place that you love no matter how long you’ve been away from it.” Hank patted Gus’ flushed cheeks. “I’d prefer to see you remember Sweden with happiness rather than sorrow, though. What makes you most homesick for Sweden?” 

“I miss being able to ramble through the countryside, hiking anywhere, forging my own path through forests and fields, wading in streams, collecting mushrooms, and munching on wild berries.” Gus smiled wistfully as he described the right of Swedes to venture on any land—public or private—to enjoy nature, a sacred privilege that was never violated, since every Swede was brought up from birth to preserve the liberty to explore the landscape as inalienable and to leave every place as good if not better than they found it. Nature belonged to everyone and nobody was supposed to damage it. 

“Next day off, we’ll visits a state park,” promised Hank, squeezing Gus’ shoulder. “It won’t be the same as in Sweden, but it will be fun for both of us.” 

“It will be like a holiday,” Gus agreed, a full-fledged beam bursting across his mouth. “When you aren’t angry at me, Hank, you’re a pretty cool guy, you know.” 

“Glad to hear it.” Hank snorted at Gus’ comment. “You aren’t supposed to think I’m cool when I’m angry at you. You’re supposed to know that I’m serious about straightening you out.” 

“I’d rather be crooked like a bushwhacked path through the woods,” remarked Gus, sticking out his tongue. 

“Aren’t you a nature lover?” Hank chuckled, mussing Gus’ hair. “I expect you’ll be pitching a tent in the backyard so you can sleep under the stars.” 

“Forget the tent.” Gus laughed. “Just give me the stars.”


End file.
